


Lily London

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sort Of, except not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 01:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Holland has revitalized White London. He invites Kell to come have a look.(Yes, Osaron is still whispering about how he needs to conquer the world but that's fine, everything's under control.)





	Lily London

Kell is doubtful when the woman first comes to him, telling him a new king requires his attention. He takes her to his father and mother, and they consider the matter for several days, while the woman (Ojka, her name is) runs back and forth between realms. She brings Kell’s father and mother a letter speaking of sincere wishes for peace from the new king of Makt. It speaks also of new prosperity, and that is where the doubt comes in. It would be much easier to believe a plea for help. Makt will never be peaceful or prosperous; surely it can only be a trap.

But the king reads the letter and the queen looks it over and with a little persuasion from Kell, who despite his wariness will always have a soft side for the other realms, even White London, they agree that the matter must at least be looked into. So, with a warning that if anything happens to Kell contact between the realms will be cut off completely and Ojka will become an outlaw on their lands, they send Kell off.

He goes with a whirl of energy. It’s the first time he’s actually been sent anywhere in months.

White London is…different. He is surprised at first, too shocked to even follow Ojka as she gestures towards the newly repaired castle. There are plants growing, not struggling in the soil but blooming and thriving. He would have imagined it would take some dark blood ritual to incite even a tulip to grow here, but flowers and trees are blossoming. The sky is so blue you could drown in it. There are people in the streets, and when Kell looks at him they meet his eyes and they smile, and he shivers, not because their looks are as hungry as usual, but because all that he can see in them is curious delight.

Ojka leads him to the castle, and into the castle (where his bones ache with memory of battle, where his pulse heightens even more than before), and to the throne room. There, sitting on a throne that has in the past hosted Athos Dane and Astrid Dane and Ros Vortalis and a thousand bloody kings before them sits a black haired king with a flush on his skin and a smile on his lips as Kell approaches.

“Do we surprise you, Kell?”

Kell looks at the man he thought till now to be dead. If he has resurrected, that is still a lesser wonder than the revival of this realm. But it is easier to comment on. “You are alive, Holland?”

“Come,” Holland says, and he stands. “Come and embrace me. There should be no more grudges between us. A new time has come.”

Kell is certain he will be stabbed (it is no more than he deserves, perhaps, after how he used Holland the last time they met), but still he obeys. He wraps his arms around the new king apologetically, and is crushed by the embrace Holland returns.

“I am alive,” Holland says, an afterthought. “But we have more important things to discuss.”

 

* * *

 

Holland reads the letter from the Maresh monarchs through twice. It is hardly any different from the first letter they sent to Vortalis, many years ago. Odd to have such a letter addressed to him now. He has felt power lately, power and duty, but this is the first time he has seen himself not merely as a savior and a servant of the people but as the successor of a long line before him. He does not much like that idea, that he succeeds dead Vortalis, that he is the same to outsiders as the Danes once were, but he pushes it aside. They will see that he is different. They will see that he is better. Kinder but stronger too. Stronger than even Arnes now, and growing stronger by the day.

_Yes_ , Osaron murmurs, a good king. _Well you rule this land. Well will you rule theirs as well. We will rule them together._

_No_ , Holland thinks. _This realm is enough. You must learn temperance—we will not be like Black London. You swore to me this would be enough_. He pens a response to the Maresh monarchs. This time he signs with his real name, as he did not dare to do the first time. They never would have sent Kell to him had he done that.

Why did it matter to him that they sent Kell? Holland is not sure. Really, he did not need to start up contact with Arnes at all—it is more likely to cause trouble than be of any use, now that he has enough power to not require aid. Nevertheless, he felt an impulse to summon Kell to him when he had done the immediate refurbishing of the castle and gotten his work as ruler off to a good start. He is not sure whether the impulse came from himself or from Osaron. It is difficult to tell their wishes apart these days. But he thought about how things might have been very different, how he might still have been under the Danes, how the land might never have gotten this green, and his mind drifted to the one who inadvertently set him on this path. Athos and Astrid’s killer. He wanted to see Kell again and ask him what occurred when Holland was away. That was what he told himself.

Now Kell is here, and Holland does not ask how Astrid and Athos died. There are stone statues left in their remembrance. He almost brings their names to his lips and spits them out for Kell’s consideration, and then they jump back down his throat again. If he mentions them, Kell will remember that Holland, like them, perhaps should not be trusted. Worse, Kell will remember the brand on Holland’s heart, and he will feel pity for Holland, or perhaps disgust.

Instead, Holland shows Kell what the castle looks like now, and takes him to see the garden. There are new beds of white lilies there that were not even there when he walked around this morning. He plucks one and hands it to Kell. “New life.”

Kell holds it awkwardly, unsure what to do with it, and then pins it in a buttonhole of his black coat. Black because that is the color he always wears when he is in Makt. Because Makt is unsafe—or once was.

“Yes,” Kell says. “I can see everywhere a sense of vigor.” He sends Holland a look. “There is something familiar about this power.”

“In that it is similar to the power of Red London? So you see our realm can have its own strength.”

“No,” Kell says. “Similar to Vitari.” He frowns, straightens his coat. “Last I saw you, you were in Black London.”

“And whose fault was that?” Holland asks.

“I thought you would die.”

“I told you we did not die so easily.”

Kell nods, slightly. He turns so that he may not look at Holland when he says, “I am glad. I did not want to be the one to kill you.”

Better him than Astrid. Better him than Athos. And better death by his hands than life under the Danes. But he is weak and naïve, and of late Holland is inclined to be forgiving. He says, “It is much better for us to live together in a better time.”

He does not realize how sincere the words will sound before they come out. Now he turns away too, as Kell looks at him. He hands Kell the letter. “Carry this back. Your masters will be waiting.”

“The last time I brought something to my realm from White London I regretted it.”

“This London is no longer white,” Holland says. “Or do we smell of ashes yet to you?” He tilts his head. “You need not trust me. But I would deal better with you than the Danes did. Perhaps together we can repair their effects on both our people.”

_Yes_ , Osaron whispers. _Two Antari are always better than one_.

“I will carry it,” Kell says. He slips it into one of his pockets. “But remember who won our last battle. Do not test me, Holland.”

Holland escorts him to a wall convenient for travel—he knows all the best places, even better than Kell does. He watches him disappear into thin air. When he is gone, he feels oddly alone.

_Not enough magic in this place. You want more, don’t you? The land of roses has plenty of strong men for companionship._

“Kell will come back. I need not chase him.” In the meantime Ojka will do for company. Besides, Holland is used to being alone. “I wish you’d stop complaining.”

_We’ve fixed your country. Aren’t you bored yet?_

“We need stability, not adventure.” Holland is restless. “Settle down. We’ll visit the fields and see that the wheat you planted still grows.”

 

* * *

 

“Holland. The man who ensnared my son.” The king is ill pleased to receive this letter. He reads it nonetheless. “Kell, can you corroborate his descriptions? You said White London is always dead.”

“It seems different.” Kell plucks the lily from his buttonhole. “Here. This is evidence.”

There is something wrong with the lily. It is hard to pinpoint. Perhaps it is the sheen of its petals, perhaps it is something about the texture of the stem. It smells as a normal lily would. Kell obscurely wishes it would smell like ashes and blood. That, at least, would be normal.

The king smells it. He does not seem to notice anything amiss. “Well, to be safe we ought to have them send to us. You should not go back there.”

“If I return, I can keep an eye on things.” And Holland, at the very least, needs a close watching. Kell is not convinced he had brought nothing back from Black London—he did not bother to deny it, but brushed the matter away. Vitari is dead. But it was only a piece of a world Kell sent Holland into, alone and dying and desperate. Kell is not sure he would blame Holland for resorting to magic of Black London if it saved his life. Rather, he blames himself. He knew all along he should have been the one to go, yet he grasped the first reprieve offered. His self indulgence may cost him greatly if White London has really been corrupted.

“Holland will keep us informed by letter,” the king says. “So he writes.”

“And he is fine if I do not return?”

The king purses his lips. “He requests you as a messenger, but since he has an Antari of his own…”

“It would be rude to distrust him.”

“We have cause.”

Kell shrugs. When at last the king proclaims that Kell will not be returning to White London for some time, he ceases to argue. The king cannot prevent him, in any case. He has been obedient lately, obedient and repentant, but he knows what he knows. Knows Holland is trouble or is in trouble, though he’s not sure which. Knows that there are only two people left with the energy to care about more than one realm, and one is him and the other is Holland. And he certainly cannot leave the caring up to Holland.

The king does not return the lily to Kell, and he does not take it back. The scent, sweet and oily, lingers on his coat for the next week. And then he slips off to White London again, to drench himself in its stench more thoroughly.

“You’re earlier than I expected,” Holland says.

“I have no letter from my king as yet. But I thought…” Kell is not sure how to explain his presence.

Holland says, “Have you ever walked by the river? It flows more cleanly now than before. I should show it to you.”

The scent of pollution is everywhere. It is thickest on Holland. Yet when he takes Kell’s hand as they walk together, Kell does not hesitate to accept. It is a warmer hand than he would have expected. He squeezes it tightly.

This man is bound to cause trouble. But knowing he is alive will help Kell sleep at night.

For now, he will pretend that Holland is right. This is a very acceptable time. This is the day of White London’s salvation.

However precarious such salvation may be.

**Author's Note:**

> God damn it, Holland should have been allowed to be happy for at least a little while and we all know it.  
> But also yeah they're all fucked.  
> It's chill.  
> Comments and kudos much appreciated :)


End file.
